


just live

by hatmouse



Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game)
Genre: (times two), Action, Angst, Blood and Injury, Decapitation, Drabble Collection, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares, Other, Temporary Character Death, The power of friendship, Tiefling, some good ol classic warlock angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-23
Updated: 2018-12-23
Packaged: 2019-09-25 08:08:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 19
Words: 8,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17117636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hatmouse/pseuds/hatmouse
Summary: He knew that fate was inevitable. He knew that one way or another, he would burn.He barely feared it.--a collection of drabbles based on my d&d character, a tiefling warlock named Poetry.





	1. fourteen

“Well, well,” the man sneered, leaning in close. Poetry tried to back away, to put some distance between himself and the hulking man, but to no avail. He knew they were going to abandon him and leave him for dead, he knew that they wouldn’t pay the ransom. But somewhere deep within he still had hope that maybe he could be saved, and he watched as that hope crumbled in his hands. His dread of what came next was overbearing, and he barely had the energy to keep in a whimper of fear. “Turns out you’re not _worth_ anything.”

The words struck a chord of bitterness in his heart. Worthless.

That’s what he had been his whole life; he wasn’t worthy of respect from his siblings, of his parent’s love, and now not even their excess money. He curled his lips, muttering, “That’s not new,” his voice cracked from disuse and lack of water, but filled with venomous hate that he didn’t even know he had.

“Now, what should we do with you, now that you’ve got no worth?” The man was close now, close enough so that Poetry could smell the stink of his breath and it made him feel sick. He could feel himself shaking, but his mind felt far away, and he wished he was also far away, somewhere else that wasn’t here, somewhere safe. His thoughts, detached and distant, screamed, _‘I’m going to die, I’m going to die, I’m going to die,’_ echoing through his head over and over again.

Killed by a man who called himself ‘Bear the Thrasher’. What a joke.

Suddenly he felt the man’s hand on his face, roughly grabbing his chin, forcing Poetry to look him in the eyes. He opened his mouth to say something, but before he could say a word, instinct kicked in despite Poetry’s exhaustion. Jerking his head out of the man's grasp, he lunged forward and, with a viciousness that he didn’t even know he had, bit down hard on the man’s hand, sharp needlelike fangs slicing through his flesh with ease. The taste of blood mixed with sweat filled his mouth, and he had to resist the urge to gag at the feeling of the man’s severed fingers in mouth. The man cursed and screamed, a sound that would’ve been like music to Poetry’s ears if it weren’t for the pounding headache he had. He spat the fingers out on the ground, blood dribbling from his mouth and dripping from his chin. With as much hatred as he could muster, he glared up at the man defiantly, baring his bloodstained fangs in some desperate attempt to intimidate him.

“You little bastard!” The man snarled, holding the bleeding stump of a hand. He noted, with satisfaction, that only the man’s thumb was intact. “That’s it, I’ve had enough of you!” Poetry’s satisfaction quickly bled into terror as the man drew his scimitar from his belt, and as the blade was held up above him, glinting in the glaring desert sun, he made one last desperate attempt to escape as his mind screamed, struggling weakly against his confines, trying to get away, trying to _live-_

The scimitar came down. Quick and neat, the blade sliced through his neck. For a second, all he could feel was horrible, painful wrongness. An excruciating pain, worse than anything he had ever felt-

Then he felt nothing.


	2. pact

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He didn’t ask for this.

“I will restore you to life, and in exchange you shall act as my champion.”

The huge humanoid before him had a smile that was much too wide. It reminded him of the villains in the books he’d read, how their wicked grins would always seem inhuman as their plans aligned. He wondered when his life had become so similar to those books. He concluded that it was probably around the time that his life had ended. 

“I shall grant you power of my own, and will ask you to accomplish tasks for me to guarantee my freedom from this prison.”

The said prison was a wasteland of storm clouds and crackling electricity, as far as the eye could see. It was almost beautiful. He decided it was better than what his own prison had been; monotone coloured walls lit up only by the light of a pathetically small window, not nearly as interesting as what looked like the inside of a stormcloud. But a prison is still a prison. Poetry could understand that.

“So, my fated, do we have a contract?” The being asked. Their voice was a hoarse, sneering whisper, their sunken eyes glowing with something akin to anticipation.

Poetry’s hands shook, but it wasn’t of fear of the being before him, it was the horror that came with the feeling of blood slowly spreading down his shirt from the horrendous wound on his neck. He reached up hesitantly to feel it, only for his hand to come back covered in his own blood. Numbly, he looked back up at Iava’s face, forcing himself to instead focus on the cracks splitting across their face that seemed to pulse with colour and energy. He gulped, distantly wondering how the action was possible when his throat was detached from the rest of his body.

“Do I even have a choice?”

He didn’t ask for this.


	3. burn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The mansion burned.

The mansion burned. He watched as his prison went up in flames, eyes glowing yellow and glinting with rage as the fire reflected in them. 

He saw his mother on the balcony. She saw him. There were tears streaming down her face as she yelled something down at him, but amongst the crackling of the fire and the groaning of the mansion as it collapsed around itself, he couldn’t make out the words. He just glared. He hoped she could see the hate in his eyes as he turned away, running away as the mansion was consumed by the flames. 

As he left, urged by Iava to run as far as he could go, he replayed it in his head. Over and over, until he finally knew what his mother was trying to say. 

_ “I’m sorry.” _

He wished that those words were meaningless to him.


	4. sixteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He didn’t know how long he sat there, enamored by the scene before him. But the feeling of childlike wonder remained in his chest the whole rest of the day, calm and peaceful as the quiet that the snow brought.

As the months became winter, Poetry was quick to notice how cold Summergrove could be. Growing up in the desert and spending the past two years in warmer climates had done him no good, as he sat in the lobby of the Homey Hearth and used his bowl of soup from Urbec as a handwarmer instead of eating it. She gave him an amused look as she passed by to deliver a tray of food for some customers.

“Cold, Poetry?”

He shook his head firmly as she briskly made her way past him, words too heavy on his tongue today to use them. He’d warm up eventually, he didn’t need the unwanted attention. However, as she walked by again with the tray now empty, it became clear to him that Urbec was not convinced.

“You’re shivering,” she observed, and Poetry noticed suddenly with a flush of embarrassment that the soup within the bowl shook as his hands trembled from the cold. With a flustered huff, he avoided her amused look. “It’s warmer downstairs, you know.”

He started to consider that option, when suddenly a loud voice broke through the usual quiet murmurs of the lobby.

“Hey, pretty boy!” It exclaimed, carrying itself throughout the entire room. It was only as he turned to face her that he processed the voice as Shiela’s, and before she could come into his line of vision, he was greeted with an explosion of cold to the face as his vision momentarily went white. Sputtering and jerking back in surprise from the sudden impact and the feeling of the bowl of soup slipping from his shaky fingers and a portion of the hot broth spilling onto his lap, Poetry quickly wiped his arm over his eyes, and while his vision returned and the substance had been wiped off, his face began to sting from the cold. He then gave Shiela a bewildered look, trying his best to keep the lightning crackling at his hands at bay.

“What, never seen snow before?” She asked with a grin. He scowled back, feeling his temper rise.

“No,” He snapped, almost surprised at the sound of his own voice, “I grew up in the desert, when do you think I would’ve ever encountered it?!”

Her grin just widened at that. “No kidding! Well, I’m glad I could be the one to show you!” She chirped.

And before Poetry could say anything, she slipped into the kitchen and out of sight. He could hear, with smug satisfaction, Urbec start to angrily chastise Shiela for bringing snow inside, saying something along the lines of Shiela having to mop it up. However, he quickly zoned out of that conversation as his attention was drawn to the window. As if in a trance, he left the remains of his soup behind and took a seat at one of the tables that was closer to the window and his gaze settled on the scene of the city outside, blanketed with white as snow gently fell upon it.

He didn’t know how long he sat there, enamored by the scene before him. But the feeling of childlike wonder remained in his chest the whole rest of the day, calm and peaceful as the quiet that the snow brought.


	5. the mines

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But it was now or never, and Poetry wasn’t fond of the idea of dying down here.

_ Boom. _   
  
The sound of thunder echoed through the mines as Poetry thunder stepped away from the tlincalli that had been his captors, reappearing and ducking behind a corner before they could even react to what he had done. He pressed himself against the wall, taking an unsteady breath as he silently reveled in the feeling of being free from the ropes that had kept him trapped in the darkness of the mines for an amount of time that he couldn’t even recall. His whole body shook; escaping in this state was going to be tricky, his movements were sluggish from blood loss and his wounds from the beholder ached painfully. But it was now or never, and Poetry wasn’t fond of the idea of dying down here. Up ahead there were two more tlincalli guarding this area of the mines, their backs turned on him and seemingly unaware of his presence despite the noise the spell had made. Hesitantly, he glanced around the corner to see the state of the other tlincalli who had been near him before, having to grab onto the wall for support. They looked confused, glancing around wildly to find their prisoner. And Poetry stiffened as he saw the beholder itself enter the area, no doubt to investigate the thunderous noise he had created. Then suddenly his legs became unable to support his weight for a second, and he scrabbled at the wall in a desperate attempt to not fall, but he felt a rock dislodge from under his fingers and could only curse internally as he loudly crashed to the ground along with some rubble, right in plain sight of his captors.   
  
_ ‘Shit.’ _   
  
He could see the monsters start to run at him in the corner of his eye, but he wasn’t looking at them too closely as he was too busy scrambling to his feet and running as fast as he could in his exhausted state, towards the two tlincalli at the entrance of the area who still were paying him no mind. He had just enough energy within him to cast one more spell, and one more thunder step would be enough to make enough distance and escape from the mine, and catching them in the blast from the spell would slow them down if they kept trying to pursue him. As he drew closer to the guards, his hair began to rise and his horns and tail began to glow vibrant yellow with electricity, and as his body became overtaken with static, he let out a wave of thunderous noise as he focused up ahead on the exact point he wanted to teleport to, but then-   
  
A shape. A flash of orange caught his eye that caused him to focus on that point instead of his intended destination, but it was too late as he found himself reappearing a couple feet in the air in the wrong place, immediately toppling down to the ground, knocking the stranger down with him.   
  
Poetry’s head spun as he tried to orient himself and managed to get to his knees, glancing back at where he had teleported from, stomach dropping as he realized he hadn’t gotten nearly far enough. While a couple of the tlincalli seemed to have not survived the blast, some were still standing and running right at him, along with the beholder which had its horrid eye set right on him. Panic building in his chest and mind too muddled to think of much else aside from escaping, he turned to face the stranger, too frantic to take note of any of their features.   
  
“Run,” he said, his voice cracking from disuse and not expressing nearly as much urgency as he had intended. The stranger gave him a bewildered look. “Run!” He tried again, gesturing fearfully at the group of monsters that were getting closer with every second. 

As horrified realization lit up the stranger’s face, Poetry once again tried scrambling to his feet, but found himself stumbling and almost falling facedown again. However, he felt a hand grab onto his wrist and pull him up to his feet as the stranger started running towards the exit and pulling him along. He ran the best he could, but he ended up practically being dragged by the stranger as the two somehow managed to outpace the monsters in pursuit and burst through the exit of the mines. They both stumbled a bit more and Poetry’s wrist was released as the two of them stopped to catch their breaths. He could hear the stranger ask him something, but his ears were ringing too loudly to make out what they were saying, and he couldn’t even turn to look at them closer as he felt the adrenaline wear off and for a moment he could see the ground rushing to meet him, but he was unconscious before he could feel himself hit the ground.   



	6. ciel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maybe it was because the human genuinely seemed like he had no intention of getting something in return for this. Or maybe it was because he was still suffering from blood loss and dehydration and every inch of his body felt sore and covered in dust or blood. He immediately decided it was the latter.

The stranger’s name was Ciel, apparently. He was human, which Poetry definitely was not fond of, with a trustworthy demeanour that Poetry did his best not to trust. Apparently he had also been sent into the mines with several others to take care of the beholder, but something went wrong, and he was the only survivor. He also didn’t like shaking hands for some reason. Poetry didn’t mind; he wasn’t one for touch either.   
  
Poetry couldn’t recall it in perfect detail, but apparently it had been Ciel who helped him out of the mines and had carried him back to safety in Azamak. Which meant, he realized with a sinking feeling, that Poetry owed him.   
  
“So what can I do for you in return?” He had asked Ciel grudgingly, sitting on the floor after instinctively decking the man upon waking up.   
  
“I’m…what?”   
  
“What. Can. I. Do. For you. In return for helping me.”   
  
“Oh, uh, no, you- you don’t have to do anything, I don’t need anything in return for helpi-“   
  
“Just answer the question. Please.” Poetry’s words lacked the bite that he meant for them to have. Maybe it was because the human genuinely seemed like he had no intention of getting something in return for this. Or maybe it was because he was still suffering from blood loss and dehydration and every inch of his body felt sore and covered in dust or blood. He immediately decided it was the latter.   
  
“Well, uh. I need to make my way back to Speur Shal, I uh. I guess having some company wouldn’t be a bad idea? I mean, two’s better than one, right?” He offered an awkward shrug and a small smile. Poetry just sighed.   
  
“I suppose so.”


	7. nightmare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I-I, am I. Am I bleeding?” He stuttered, his voice weak, hoarse from the screaming. “It-it feels like. Like I’m bleeding.”

It took a moment for Poetry to process that he was screaming. At first, he thought the sound was coming from somewhere else; it sounded too far away and detached to be coming from his own throat-

His throat. But how could he scream with such a wound inflicted on his throat? His mouth filled with the taste of blood as he felt himself choking for air through the blood that overflowed from his mouth, from the open wound on his neck, staining his shirt, staining the sheets, he could still hear the dripping of blood but he wasn’t sure if it was from Bear or himself. He gasped for breath, ears barely picking up the sound of voices through the ringing in his ears. But he couldn’t get enough air, he couldn’t breath, _he couldn’t_ _breath, he was dead, and-_

A presence near him, he could feel them sitting on the edge of the bed. His bed; that’s right, he was in bed, at the- the Homey Hearth? No, the Enchanted Fox Inn. Far from home, too far. He turned his thoughts back to the presence. Who were they? How did they get into his room? His mind was moving too fast and too slow at the same time, a dizzying mess of questions with no available answers. The ringing in his ears lowered to a slight buzz, and through it he could hear the voices a little clearer. He tried to look up at the source of one of the voices - Ciel? - but his eyes refused to focus. He settled for looking just in the direction of the voice, and tried to find his own.

“I-I, am I. Am I bleeding?” He stuttered, his voice weak, hoarse from the screaming. “It-it feels like. Like I’m bleeding.” His hand hovered around his neck, his wound, too afraid to touch it lest his fears were confirmed and his hand would come back wet with blood.

“No, you’re not.” Ciel replied. His voice was steady; it was comforting, in a way. Grounding. Poetry could see him edge closer to check, just in case. Despite his instincts screaming for him to flinch away, he remained unmoving.

“No, you’re okay. No blood.” Said another voice. Poetry gazed in its direction, trying to make out the form, trying to match the vague shape and voice with a name. Harumi? That’s right, Harumi. He could barely make out her ears twitching.

“Oh.” He mumbled numbly in response. “Oh, I. I just. Felt it.” His voice was breaking and tentatively, he brushed his fingers against the wound on his neck. A scar. Old and faded, but still there. He ran his trembling fingers along the uneven skin, the feeling reminding him just how old it was. It had been years since he had obtained it. No blood had spilt from it in a long time. And yet, the taste was still strong in his mouth, and his hands shook wildly, his vision blurred with what was probably tears. When was the last time he had let himself cry in the presence of others? He couldn’t remember. Maybe he never had.

A sudden warmth interrupted his racing thoughts. He glanced down at the new presence on his lap to see a fox staring back. Big brown eyes, ears twitching expectantly. Familiar ears; Harumi. Without second thought, he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close, burying his face in her fur. She was warm. Alive. Was he alive? He could feel her heartbeat, and tried to match his breaths with her steady ones. He then felt another warmth; arms wrapping around his shoulders, embracing him. He wasn’t used to the feeling, touch usually set off alarms in his mind, screaming of wrongness. But this was different. Kind, like Ciel. Safe. He leaned into the embrace, still holding Harumi tightly in his arms. And absently, before his thoughts fizzled out into what would hopefully be a dreamless sleep, he wished that he could live in the feeling forever.


	8. morgan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You don’t have to look anymore.”

“Ciel,” he began. His own voice felt too poisonous on his tongue. “What’s your  _ real  _ name?”

A moment of shocked silence. The rain began to fall. 

“I-” Ciel paused, obviously taken aback. Poetry ignored the spike of guilt in his chest, tried to drown out the voice in his head that was screaming for him to stop. “It- it’s Morgan. Poetry, why-”

“I meant your  _ full _ name.”

Ciel’s mouth hung open as the words seemed to fail him. 

“It’s okay. I already know. Morgan Laval, right?”

Ciel’s eyes were wide. “Y-yes. But Poetry, how do you know th-”

“Ciel, what were you doing all that time, working for the couriers? What was making all that killing worth it?”

“I-I wanted to take them down from the inside. And-” He paused, taking a deep breath. Calming himself. “And I wanted to find the person who hired the people who killed my family.”

The silence hung in the air as Poetry willed himself to look Ciel in the eye. Willed his voice to remain steady and cold. Emotionless. He inhaled. Exhaled. Finally found the strength to look up at his face. Finally found his voice.

“You don’t have to look anymore.”


	9. bear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Recognition slowly bled into Bear’s expression into a wide eyed, shocked stare. “No fucking way.”
> 
> “Yes fucking way,” Poetry sneered, pulling his collar back up.

“Sorry, who are you again?” Bear asked. The crown atop his head glinted in the light. It didn’t suit him.

Poetry simply unbuttoned the collar of his shirt, pulling it away to reveal the perfect scar around his neck, and gave the man a vicious grin. “What, you don’t remember me?” He asked mockingly. He hoped that the smile on his face showed his fangs clearly enough. He hoped it scared him.

Recognition slowly bled into Bear’s expression into a wide eyed, shocked stare. “No fucking way.”

“ _ Yes _ fucking way,” Poetry sneered, pulling his collar back up. “I think you know why I’m here.”

“I think you should have stayed dead nine years ago.”

“That makes two of us, but looks like neither of us got what we wanted.”


	10. vengeance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Any last words?” The man sneered, but Poetry could tell he was just barely hanging on as well. “I don’t think I gave you the chance to say any the last time, you should be glad I’m giving you the opportunity now!”

The rain cascaded down on the marble balcony, the lightning flashing and illuminating the figure that stood before him. The figure that had haunted every nightmare, that had ruined any possibility of a normal life for Poetry. He was grinning wildly, the rain bouncing off of the weapons held in his hands, both of which glowed in a somewhat ethereal way. He could feel that old familiar fear building up within him; it was suffocating him, and he did his best to cease the shaking in his hands and the quickening of his breath. For a moment he was transported to the black sand barrens, tied up and alone to face his fate alone at the hands of Bear. He could feel that unbearable fear, the scimitar slicing through his neck like it was nothing, that brief yet searing pain, the warm, damp feeling of his own blood staining his clothing. Then the thunder roared in the sky above them, and Poetry could almost make out Iava’s voice amidst the crackling boom.

_ “Vengeance.” _

As the word met his ears, the fear bled into anger. White hot and sparking like the electricity within him, and he could feel Iava’s power ready at the tips of his fingers, sparks of electricity leaping from them.

The halfling, Kaeda, nervously glanced between the two before calling out, “Let the duel begin!”

The words barely processed in Poetry’s mind as he swiftly swept a hand out, and three illusions of himself appeared at his side as Bear lunged towards him. Quick and ferocious, the man swept his weapons through two of the illusions immediately, and they shattered like glass before disappearing. He then swept at the third, only to miss entirely, and the man let out a frustrated yell.

Poetry took a step back from the man, and stretched out his hand to the raging storm above. The clouds swirled and rumbled under his control, and as a bolt of lightning flashed down upon him, his hand closed around the crackling energy. He could hear Iava in his head cackling with glee as he lowered the hand in the direction of Bear, who watched with a look of bewilderment and horror that was quickly interrupted as the bolt of lightning struck him head on. Poetry couldn’t help but grin at the sound of the man’s scream, but the satisfaction was cut short as the man quickly burst though the flash of light that the lightning had caused, and swung his axe at Poetry before he could react. He managed to raise an arm in time, but the blade cut through the clothing and skin easily, and the blood was already beginning to soak his arm.

Another flash of lightning. Thinking quick, Poetry ducked down and away from the man, making sure his illusion took his place as Bear reared his sword back for another strike. He watched, with a sick feeling in his stomach, as the blade cut through the neck of his last remaining illusion and it shattered into nothingness. Bear yelled in frustration as he caught sight of the real Poetry and swung at him once again, but Poetry easily danced away from the two incoming blows. He then hissed in pain as he was caught off guard by a third blow, the sword catching him in the side before he could avoid it. He jumped back, and whistled a low note as the lightning bolt appeared in his hand, and shot off in Bear’s direction. Seeing the bright yellow bolt streaking towards him, Bear managed to duck away, but was not prepared for it to turn in midair and blast past Bear and right back to Poetry. The man yelled a loud, angry note as he stumbled from the pain, but quickly righted himself as he glared up at Poetry, his eyes blazing. The fear within him began to creep back into his senses as Bear lunged at him again, and all Poetry could do was try to back away from the man’s fury, but it was no use. The sword slashed at his shoulder, dangerously close to his neck, and his body felt frozen as the sword was replaced with the axe, which Bear swung downwards, slashing across Poetry’s torso. He could barely react to the pain from either wound before Bear reared the silver longsword back, and plunged it through Poetry’s chest. His mouth gaped into a soundless scream as pain blossomed through his entire body, and the taste of blood filled his mouth. The sword was magical in some way, he could feel it through how it burned in an  _ excruciatingly _ painful way as Bear twisted the blade slowly, meeting Poetry’s shocked gaze with a look of malice.

“Any last words?” The man sneered, but Poetry could tell he was just barely hanging on as well. “I don’t think I gave you the chance to say any the last time, you should be glad I’m giving you the opportunity now!”

Poetry struggled to find his breath as dark spots started to fill his vision, and he could feel blood dribbling down to his chin as he opened his mouth. “Y-you know,” he sputtered, “I was just about to ask you the same thing.”

Bear’s victorious expression was replaced with a look of confusion, and with that, Poetry let out a quiet, broken hum as the lightning bolt shot from the side, blasting through Bear’s neck, blood splattering across Poetry’s face as the man’s head fell to the ground with a dull thud that Poetry could barely hear through the ringing in his ears. Bear’s body fell backwards like a puppet with its strings cut, pulling the sword from Poetry’s chest and earning one last quiet cry of pain from him as the weapon was abruptly removed. He felt as though his mind had gone somewhere else as, before him, laid the lifeless body of Bear the Thrasher. 

His vision began to spin and he tried to right himself to keep from falling to the ground, but it was to no avail as the ground suddenly disappeared from beneath him and his back hit the ground. Despite the spots in his vision and the pain that screamed for him to sleep, he registered it as Harumi who had knocked him down into a powerful hug, who was now on top of him with a tight embrace, her face buried in his shoulder as she sobbed. A feeling of warmth filled his chest and overtook the pain, the familiar feeling of healing magic stitching together the worst of his wounds. He breathed deeply as he stared at the sky above, his eyes still wide with shock of the turnout of the battle. And slowly, with effort as his limbs seemed to weigh more than they should have, he returned Harumi’s embrace, and prayed that the tears streaming down his face were hidden amongst the rain that continued to pour.


	11. harumi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And he was sure to hold onto that love the best he could, even if he didn’t truly understand it yet.

Harumi was strange. Their friendship was built on childlike bickering and explosive duels, Harumi gleefully poking at his explosive temper until she was on the destructive end of his magic. And yet, from the moment they had met, Poetry couldn’t help but feel an odd pull to her, a need to try and understand.

“Why do you have ears?” He asked bluntly at one point before either of them had paid much mind to the other, his eyes fixated on the strange pair of foxlike ears atop her head.

She gave him an odd look. “I don’t know, why do you have a tail?”

“Because I’m a tiefling, and it’s normal for tieflings to have tails. And those ears are obviously not normal so- uh. What.”

“I- well, it’s because-“ She began, but then paused, tentatively reaching up to touch them, looking genuinely confused. As though she never actually considered that. “I-I don’t. I don’t know?”

And that was that. Harumi was truly an enigma.

He couldn’t explain just why or how she managed to become his closest friend. Maybe it was because, in some way, they were similar. Touched by death, and unsure of how the world around them worked, still learning about what it meant to have friends, and how to love. It was the only way Poetry could explain how, despite claiming that he didn’t care for her, he had shielded her unconscious body without a second thought, despite knowing that the hit could have killed him just as easily.

It was love. Love for a precious, irreplaceable friend. And he was sure to hold onto that love the best he could, even if he didn’t truly understand it yet.


	12. warm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Like I said, I really can't say that I'm okay with this entire thing. But you clearly regret it and honestly, I think that's enough for me. I want us to be okay."

"Following Iava's orders is- it's basically all I've ever known, so I didn't know what else to do.”

It was a flimsy reasoning. He knew that. But it was true, and Morgan deserved the truth.

“The tasks they assign me are usually-usually mundane and harmless. Little things, like obtaining certain items, or introducing myself to certain people, or travelling a certain direction.”

A shaky inhale. A shaky exhale. Morgan was looking at him, but he couldn’t bring himself to meet his eyes.

“This was- it was different from that. I didn't want to do it, I hated every second of it, and it still- I still hate myself for doing it, but I still did it."

He kept his eyes glued to the ground, and couldn’t help but tense up as he heard Morgan sigh and get to his feet, taking a seat next to Poetry on the floor, remaining wordless. He continued to talk, desperate to fill the silent air with  _ something _ .

"Iava has never forced me to carry out an order- it's all me. Iava may have given me the command, but by all means your family, they- their deaths were by my hand. And yours could have been too. I could have-” his voice broke, and he took another deep breath to compose himself. It didn’t work. “I could have killed you too."

“Poetry, can I hug you?”

Poetry froze, glancing up and meeting Morgan’s eyes for the first time throughout the conversation. His brain tried to process the words he had just heard, but all it did was leave him confused. 

“.....Why?” He asked, bewildered. There wasn’t a trace of anger in Morgan’s expression, and he just couldn’t understand  _ why _ .

"You just-” Morgan paused, trying to find his words. “You just seem like you need a hug. And there's things I want to convey, but I'm bad at talking sometimes so I figured I'd hug you while putting words together."

"You-  _ I'm _ the one who seems like I need a hug?” He couldn’t keep his voice from raising with disbelief. “Morgan, right now I'm explaining the circumstances of  _ your family's assassination _ . That  _ I  _ caused. If-if anything,  _ you're  _ the one who should be getting a hug, not me."

"Hugs are a two way thing, usually, Poetry.” He replied with a lighthearted shrug and a small smile. “I could use a hug too, I just gave priority to the fact you seemed upset and that you might want one."

Poetry was looking Morgan right in the eye now, eyes wide with confusion. "What-what I'm  _ trying _ to say is, you shouldn't be prioritizing me right now in general! You should be upset, or mad, or just- just angry at me! Or hate me! Or  _ something!  _ It would-" he trailed off, his voice growing quiet after his outburst. "...It would make this so much easier if you could just  _ hate _ me."

"I  _ am _ upset, Poetry.” Morgan replied, but his voice was still even. Calm. “But that's the thing, though, I don't - I don't want to hate you, and I'm not going to just because it would make this easier for you. I... probably would, under different circumstances, and it's not like I'm really okay  with this whole thing, but. I've... come to really care about you. Which is what I thought I might better convey with a hug."

Poetry stared at Morgan’s face in silence for a moment, trying to read his expression for a lie, for some trace of deception. But Morgan was genuine. He always was. Poetry took a shaky breath and looked away once again.

"If-if it'll make you feel better, or help you think of words to say, th-then I won't object. To the hug."

Almost immediately after the last word was spoken, he was pulled into Morgan’s arms. Gently, carefully, loose enough for Poetry to break free if he needed to. But it was warm, and the tension in his shoulders began to melt away as he tentatively returned the hug. They stayed like that for a moment, and despite himself he reveled in the softness of Morgan’s cloak and the feeling of his breath in Poetry’s hair. He tried to supress the pang of disappointment he felt as they eventually broke away. Morgan gave him a weak smile, and Poetry couldn’t help but notice that his hair had become overtaken with static upon having such contact with Poetry.

"Like I said, I really can't say that I'm okay with this entire thing. But you clearly regret it and honestly, I think that's enough for me. I want us to be okay." Morgan explained.

Poetry simply curled his knees up to his chest, pulling his eyes back down to the ground. He still couldn’t  _ understand _ . He just couldn’t. He opened his mouth to protest, to warn Morgan of being so forgiving, that he didn’t deserve that forgiveness. But the words wouldn’t come, and he closed his mouth. 

“...So do I.” He finally said after a moment, his voice barely a whisper.


	13. promise

"Do you really want to make things up to me?"

Poetry felt a jolt of nervousness as Morgan’s question cut through the silence between them. "Yes- I mean, if there's even anything I  _ can _ do to make it up to you." 

"Just stay alive, and stay with me then, okay?"

He hesitated.

“...I’ll try.”


	14. missing

Morgan was missing. Ignatius hadn’t seen him, and Reymas told them that he had last seen him when he had left to return to the inn last night. And he had never returned. 

Poetry was panicking. He knew that, knew his thoughts weren’t rational. 

_ ‘The first stage is denial,’ _ A voice in his head sang as he shakily offered possibilities for Morgan’s absence. He desperately pushed it away.

According to Harumi, Morgan wasn’t anywhere in the city. He was gone. He was either dead or had left them, abandoned them, went far far away. The latter made his heart ache and he knew Morgan wouldn’t do something like that, but he wished desperately for it to be the most truthful of the options. 

He didn’t want it to be true that he had failed protecting the one thing he had sworn to protect. 

_ “Just stay alive and stay with me,” _ Morgan’s voice echoed in his mind amongst the growing fear, and he wished it could be a comfort but a trace of bitterness plagued his thoughts.

_ ‘Hypocrite,’ _ it whispered. 


	15. grief

Electricity from the previous blast still crackled from Poetry’s hands as he began to stride calmly towards the twitching, convulsing body of the Yuan-ti man. His senses were focused on the target ahead of him, ignoring how his body screamed in pain with every step he took, ignoring the destruction of the scene around them. Zylas’ face was in agony, mouth wide in a wordless scream and eyes unseeing through the pain, but alive, still alive-

_ “Cease the breath in his lungs, cease the beating of his heart, he doesn’t deserve your mercy, he doesn’t deserve your hesitation-“ _ A voice in the back of his mind snarled, twisted and angry and cracking with a desperate sense of grief. It took him a moment to have the detached realization that it wasn’t the familiar voice of Iava’s. It was his own.

The storm at his fingertips grew and roared as he blasted it at the prone body of the man. Again and again, the beams of electricity battered Zylas, hitting him dead on.

_ “He killed him, he killed him, he killed him, hekilledhimhekilledhim-“  _ His mind screamed. His thoughts felt loud, yet far away as the man’s body fell limp after the final blast, save for occasional shudders caused by the electricity coursing through his body. He thought he could hear Iava laughing, a delighted cackle at the violent display of their power, but his ears were ringing too loudly to be sure. Distantly, he urged himself to send a few more blasts, it was hard to tell if he was still alive with the constant twitching and with the wide, yet clouded eyes. But his arms fell to his side and proved too heavy to listen to the thoughts that were quickly becoming drowned out by the ringing in his ears. He stood, but he wasn’t sure how he remained upright as the world around him spun and the rage within him started to die out, leaving him only with a numb, heavy feeling that he couldn’t place as his eyes refused to leave the man’s lifeless eyes, as though his mind was determined to burn the image into his mind forever.

“-etry. Poetry!” He was jostled from his daze by a shrill voice and hands roughly shaking him by the shoulders, and he could only flinch away from them and force himself to focus on Harumi standing before him, a look of panic and fear in her face. Prosper and Shiela were also there, Prosper looking shocked and covered with a layer of dust, and Shiela staring at him with an emotion he was too scared to place.

“You listening? We need to get out of here now!” She hissed, and without waiting for an explanation or a protest, grabbed him by the hand and dragged him along as they took off into the shadows of the city’s alleyways.


	16. fire

Burning down his home most likely didn’t make his parents regret leaving him to die. It probably didn’t make them wish that they had held him more, or give him the love that children needed.

Killing Bear didn’t remove the scar from his neck, or keep the nightmares from afflicting his sleep.

Killing Zylas didn’t bring Morgan back to life.

But his past had formed him into a bitter and angry creature, sharp fangs bared in a desperate attempt to scare off anything else that could hurt him. The fire that he had started in his home found a place in his heart, and the rage that burned in his heart had grown into a blazing inferno that consumed everything in its path. And with the fire, he was determined to take down all those things that had caused him pain, even if he ended up catching fire and burning down with them. 

He knew that fate was inevitable. He knew that one way or another, he would burn.

He barely feared it.


	17. again

Poetry hated the snow.

It was a beautiful thing when he first saw it, having spent most of his life in more desert-like climates where it never made an appearance. But it didn’t take long for him to grow a sort of disdain for the bitter coldness that it brought, and the aches in his chest it would bring when he inevitably would become sick from it. He was not built for weather like that, and he came to accept that fact fairly soon after becoming acquainted with it.

Seeing Morgan experience it for the first time, though, seeing the childlike wonder in their eyes almost made him start to love it. Almost.

Poetry hated the snow. Figures that he’d die in it as well, like some last “fuck you” from the universe. A distant, faraway feeling wanted to be angry about this, to curse the universe for such irony, but his thoughts were too muddled and ridden with pain to do much of anything.

The beast snarled down at him, and though it had no eyes he could still read the malice loud and clear as it seemed to taunt him, jagged fangs glistening with his own blood. It had him pinned to the ground with a powerful foot, claws sinking into his chest, agonizingly painful and too strong for him to escape from. His consciousness had been flickering, the familiar feeling of healing magic from Prosper bringing him back from the brink more than once, only for the beast to get right back to its prey and sink its fangs into him once again. His limbs felt heavy and numb as he was distantly aware of his own blood staining the snow of which he laid. Too much blood.

Shaking, trembling hands grabbed onto him, pulling him away, and he could see a flash of purple as Justice lunged at the beast. Vision swimming, he pinpointed the blurry orange shape above him as Prosper as she clung onto him like her life depended on it. Or his. It probably did. Healing magic soothed the agony once again and her touch was warm against the icy chill that had settled in his bones, but his mind was still a whirlwind of confusion as he squinted at her face and tried to see more clearly, blinking sluggishly.

He could see she was crying, and his mind felt so far away that he couldn’t seem to figure out why. He wanted to say something. Anything to make everything less confusing, or to calm the storm of anxiety and fear in his stomach.

_ ‘Where’s Morgan? Is it attacking you too? Are you okay, is everyone okay? Where’s Harumi? It’s cold, Prosper, why is it so cold? Please don’t let it kill me. Please don’t let me die. I made a promise. I don’t want to die again, not now, I can’t do that to Shiela and Urbec, or Morgan or Harumi, I have people who will miss me now, I can’t, please-‘ _

His mouth wouldn’t form the words so he tried to communicate his frenzied thoughts to her telepathically the best he could, but he couldn’t tell if the connection was made. And then Prosper’s shrill scream filled his ears as claws of dark metal slammed into him, dragging him from the warmth of her arms and back into the bloodstained snow with vicious fangs that were buried deep in his skin as he was pulled away. All he could do was meet her eyes one last time as the fear in his chest seemed to triple.

_ ‘Help me, please, I’m dying and there’s nothing I can do, please, help me-‘ _ He begged to Iava, desperate for any kind of reassurance that he’d get through this. Silence. He was barely surprised, but the silence still left his thoughts alone to spiral.

He was still weak. The snow beneath his back was painted with his own blood. He couldn’t move. The beast seemed to sneer. Its mouth seemed to curl into a satisfied smirk, making a horrid noise of metal scraping metal. Distantly, he could hear Prosper and Morgan call out his name. He didn’t even have the strength to look.

He was going to die. For good, this time.

The beast’s heavy paw on his chest seemed to lighten for a moment and he tried to breath but it came out like a sob as the realization came to him. The paw was lifted in the air, and-

Suddenly those weren’t black metal claws glistening with his own blood anymore, but a scimitar glistening in the desert sun, and he was a helpless child again and he could only scream as he found he couldn’t move out of the way as it came down on him, cry as he was faced with such a sudden and cruel end-

The paw slammed down on his chest. He could hear his own ribs being crushed under its weight, a horrid crunching that was somewhat louder than the horrified screams of his friends, and he opened his mouth to scream but there was nothing left inside of him. This couldn’t be fixed, he realized, thoughts hazy with agony. Prosper couldn’t fix this, no matter how much he wanted her to. He couldn’t keep his promise with Morgan. His last goodbye to Harumi wasn’t meant to be so final.

It was unfair. He had only just started to live, and that taste of life had been so brief. Out of his whole twenty three years of life, only with six months did he truly find a reason for it all. Half a year was all he could get, and now it was over. He would have cried at the thought, but his body felt numb and his mind far away.

He couldn’t hear anything anymore. Couldn’t feel the bitter cold anymore, couldn’t feel the pain. He found himself with his fading vision aimed at the sky as he lay in the snow, watching as it fell.

He hated the snow.

But as his vision went dark and it faded from his view, he found himself missing its beauty already.


	18. lucky

“It seems that, well, you’re a really lucky one, aren’t you?”

He could only cry as Ioun held him in her arms, sobbing as he returned the hug desperately, as if her touch could undo all of the damage done to him.

“Not only were you the second known fated of Iava, but you also happened to be born under my star as well.”

He cried for the child he never had the chance to be, whose existence was cursed and hidden from the world, who never knew a mother’s love or a father’s pride, who only knew his own room and the piles of books that were his only company.

“So this isn’t the end- it’s okay- You can keep that promise and see them all again.”

He cried for the child that kicked and screamed and believed with all his heart that someone would save him, only to be faced with the fact that he was unloved and left to die at the hands of an embodiment of human cruelty.

“You get a third chance. But make sure you’re careful with this one, alright?”

He cried for the broken teenager whose only company was a voice in his head that only cared for him for their own ulterior motives.

“I can grant you a deal if you desire and give you power like the deal you had with Iava, but if you don’t want to, I understand.”

He cried for the young man who felt he had no other choice but to cause harm to others, to live in fear of people, while also yearning for their touch that he never expected to feel. Cried for himself after being beaten down, abandoned, forced to feel like he was choking from loneliness, using anger as a tool to cover the hurt and fear.

“My fated, I’m so sorry for what has been done to you.”

He was sorry too.

And so, he cried.


	19. patience

Poetry was alone when he awoke in the temple of Ioun. It was dark and cold, and he immediately felt shivers wrack his body from the second he became aware of his surroundings, his body bare of clothing and unadjusted to the cold of the Northern Spanse. He took a second to take in the state of his own body, and immediately felt nausea as he became aware of the new marks upon his body that fit in perfectly with the rest of the scars that riddled his body. Claw and bite marks, handprint-shaped punctures and scars where his ribs had broken through skin; the memory of his consciousness faltering as he prepared for the killing blow was still fresh in his mind, and yet the marks had the appearance of having healed long ago. Not even a week had passed in his mind. It filled him with a sense of discomfort, a feeling that was all too familiar. Swallowing down the sense of wrong that was rising in his throat, he forced his attention to focus on his surroundings instead, becoming increasingly aware that this temple was scarcely used, maybe even abandoned. Relief flooded him as he spotted a bundle of clothes and a pair of boots that sat in the corner of the chamber, and he quickly made his way to it. The clothing was a little too thin for his liking and hung loose on his slight frame, obviously meant for someone larger than him, but he was grateful for the warmth regardless of how little it was.

The room felt oddly dark; he had grown so adjusted to his own light from his horns and tail that the low lighting made him uneasy despite his darkvision. But just like the pact he had made with Iava, the marks of their deal were gone from his body. And, unfortunately, that involved the invocation they had granted him that had made him unable to feel the effects of the cold. His teeth chattered as he wrapped the old, worn cloak around his body as tightly as possible, and stepped out into the snow, his eyes set on the Conclave of Arcanum as the bitter cold made his cheeks sting.

About a month until his friends would return to the Conclave, Ioun has told him.

One month until he could see Prosper’s smile, and tell her that he was sorry for her seeing him in the state he had been in.

One month until he could apologize to Justice, and tell her she did the best she could.

One month until he could feel Morgan’s warmth once again, the comfort of his touch that he already missed so much.

And so, one month he would wait.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading, whoever you may be! <3


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